


the remedy for everything

by FictitiousFanatisch



Category: Liam Payne (Musician), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Use, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, Guns, M/M, Pining, Prostitution, Trust Issues, alcoholsim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:25:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10298549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictitiousFanatisch/pseuds/FictitiousFanatisch
Summary: "When are you going to be back?" Liam asks, hating how desperate he sounds. Sometimes he thinks Zayn knows, when his eyes linger too long, or his voice trembles too hard. Sometimes he's convinced it's the most obvious thing in the world."Maybe tonight," Zayn takes the final hit, then stubs it out in the ash tray on his nightstand. He slides his phone and his wallet into his pockets, then exits the bedroom.Probably tomorrow.Liam sighs.(AU. Zayn's got issues. Liam loves him in secret.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stateofdreamingisme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofdreamingisme/gifts).



It's been about two years since Liam moved out of his parents' home. He was convinced he could make ends meet on an uncertified salary while maintaining solid marks in his undergraduate courses. But it's been difficult these last few months. He's had to take up extra shifts at the cafe in the afternoons and on weekends, which pretty much leaves him no time for homework, let alone a social life. He's stuck doing the laundry and keeping the flat tidied in his scant intervals of free time while Zayn fucks off to God knows where doing fuck all with God knows who. Liam hasn't had a proper night to himself in ages. It's astounding, he's twenty-three and his life is already in shambles around him. He blames Zayn.

To be fair, some part of Liam always blames Zayn – for the late nights, the bad decisions, the constant emotional exhaustion, and that primitive pull toward insanity – but it's actually Zayn's fault this time. He'll swear it.

He's sitting at the kitchen table in their flat, running the pads of his fingers into his aching temples for the third evening this week. He just finished his shift about an hour ago, called in Chinese takeout on the brisk walk home and managed to pick it up as well. And that's because he can't trust Zayn to be responsible for anything important like that – you know, dinner. But he's used to it. He flips back to the previous page of his biology textbook, frustration boiling in his blood. He must have read this paragraph twelve times but none of the information is permeating his brain. He's supposed to test on this tomorrow - as in, the day after today, tomorrow, but he just can't seem to focus on his studies, not when his life is packed to the brim with needless woes.

Liam takes a deep, unsettled breath, tossing his pencil into the spine of the book before pushing his chair out from the table. Certainly a shower will clear his mind, then he can return to studying. He glances at the digital clock on the oven, taking note of the time. If he wants to get the seven hour rest he needs to feel refreshed and fully functional in the morning, he'll be in bed by ten-thirty. It's currently eight o'clock, but he's always been good at managing his time. With his uniform in the drier and dinner already taken care of, he's fairly confident he can meet that goal.

The shower doesn't do a lot to clear his mind, when an undesirable amount of time is dedicated to thinking about Zayn. He tries to be productive and recite whatever facts about genomics he's glossed over in the last thirty minutes, but his thoughts always wander back to his flat mate. He wonders where Zayn is this time, who he's with. He devises painfully irrational narratives about how Zayn's finally gotten into the wrong person's car, or took something he just so happened to have an unknown allergic reaction to, or that he's currently drinking himself into comatose. He worries about Zayn a lot more than the average friend, but in light of their their circumstances, Liam could argue he doesn't worry nearly enough.

He comes to as the warm water runs cold around him, goosebumps tearing him from his dark imagines. He rinses the shampoo out of his hair, and then cuts off the water and carefully steps out of the tub, reaching blindly for his navy blue towel.

It's been about a year since he admitted it to himself – the root of his unrest in Zayn's reckless lifestyle. Liam doesn't like feeling helpless and idle, like his words evaporate before they can even reach the older's ears. And sometimes he wishes Z would at least pretend to care about how any of it affects him.

Liam has spent a great portion of his life crawling after Zayn, picking up his messes and smoothing his rough edges. His constant care is nearly never earned. It's simply a byproduct of his unconditional love for Zayn, a poor, pathetic hope that one day, once the battle's won and the dust has cleared he can prove himself an adequate partner. It's pathetic; Liam bases his entire existence on a man who walks all over him.

Liam does make his life with Zayn out to be arduous and emotionally taxing, but he does enjoy many aspects of it. The man's constant presence is one of them. Although, their schedules polarize Monday through Thursday, sometimes he does get to see Zayn in the evenings just before he heads out, or on Sunday afternoons when he's passed out on their couch, drooling on a throw pillow with his black leather jacket still clinging to his shoulders. Liam likes knowing that every night, regardless of where his stupefied misadventures lead him, Zayn always returns.

And Zayn is more honest with him than anyone else; in the brief few moments they cross paths to complain about the cheap heating unit, discuss bills over coffee or have a domestic spat about drinking milk from the carton [Zayn], Liam feels more mentally stimulated than with any of the teachers, peers or coworkers he's conversed with throughout the standard week. It's an ample, yet irreplaceable comfort – sharing intimate space with someone who speaks your language. He wishes they would communicate more.

Liam finally finds something warm enough to sleep in, checks his phone six times, retrieves his uniform from the drier and folds it on his dresser before returning to the kitchen. He could swear he wasn't procrastinating, but when a curt glimpse at the clock tells him it's already nine-fourteen – he snaps himself out of it. He collects his textbook and notes from class, giving them an optimistic once over before slipping back into his room with hopes of productivity for the remainder of the night.

-

Liam startles awake by a loud thump, frowning as his much needed rest is disturbed. It's undoubtedly Zayn, stumbling into the apartment well beyond midnight, drunk or high and barely able to walk, let alone navigate around their furniture. Liam rolls onto his side, drawing the duvet up over his head in an attempt to drown the subtle creak and dip of the floorboards.

But he can't help but listen, just in case. His worst nightmares have never teased his reality, but Liam knows one day Zayn won't be able to keep doing stuff like this anymore. He's always put his body through much more than it could handle, chain smoking since he was fourteen, skipping meals to save time and giving up sleep for the job. He's willing to sacrifice a lot for his pride, and the ability to choose and do whatever he wants with no regard for potential consequences. Liam does more than enough caring for the both of them.

Zayn's silhouette floats past Liam's doorway as he feels his way down the hall toward his room. His footing sounds relatively steady, but every now and then his hand lands clumsily against the drywall. Eventually, he makes it to his room.

Liam closes his eyes once more, feeling a sense of peace.

_Zayn is home, at least. He's safe._

-

Liam wakes up a half an hour after his alarm was supposed to go off. He rips himself out of bed as soon as he realizes this, brushes his teeth, throws on a functional outfit and practically bolts toward the kitchen to stuff his notes and textbooks into his backpack.

He manages to make it past the gate just in time to board the tube, doubling over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He doesn't have time to fix his tousled hair before class; studying is his sole priority.

He stops by the cafeteria and buys a cinnamon bagel and some coffee. He makes it in time for class, eating quickly while flipping through his notes one final time, trying to soak up as much information as he can for this test.

It goes relatively well, considering the week he's had, but Liam is almost certain he bombed the last two short essay questions on xenotransplantation. He packs up at the end of class and leaves for his next one – anatomy and physiology– which ends at noon and should give him plenty of time to eat a decent meal and get back across town for his two-thirty shift.

-

The cafe is just as crowded as usual, people stopping in for late lunches and afternoon snacks, seasonal hot drinks to tide them over until the end of the day. Liam sees a few students sitting in the booths by the windows, reminding him of his own term paper due this Friday. He hasn't even had the chance to chose a subject, let alone start writing it. He makes a mental note to reorganize his priorities.

And sometimes Liam feels like his best years are passing him by because he doesn't spend enough time with other people. He doesn't have any friends in London besides Zayn. And he doesn't even spend time with Zayn. He's either always working, avoiding his flatmate or obsessing over school, and it's starting to affect his morale.

It's been an hour when the midday rush finally simmers down to a few lonely customers. Liam is meandering behind the counter, looking around for any prying eyes before pulling out his phone to pass the remainder of his shift with a game app.

"Could I get a caramel mocha latte with two shots of expresso? Um, and could you hold the cream? I'm trying to watch my weight," A soft, familiar voice breaks the eerie silence of the restaurant. Liam glances up, his heart jumping at the sight of the man.

Zayn bites the knuckle of his index finger, his eyes crinkling around a giddy smile as he mocks Liam.

"Fuck off," Liam chuckles, taking in Zayn's features as he knocks down the hood of his black jumper, "What are you doing here?"

"Um, I came to see you? Why else? To order diabetes inducing seasonal beverages and cardboard sandwiches?" Zayn balks, as if it's an obvious deduction to make. Maybe it is.

Liam smiles, "Careful, I work here,"

"Unfortunate," Zayn chides, leaning his elbows against the countertop.  
"You busy tonight?"

Liam locks his phone, sliding it into his back pocket. "Uh, no... why?"

"Would you... want to do something? I'm bored," Zayn whines, tracing idle shapes over the glass display of cold, day old pastries. Liam traces his wandering gaze with the same tired disposition.

"Did you have anything in mind?"

Zayn's tongue swipes across his bottom lip, brown eyes peering up over the rim of his black half frames. He shrugs, but Liam knows he must have had something in mind to have walked all the way down here to see him.

Sometimes it's so obvious that he wants to say more, that there are sonnets and epics behind his guise of nonchalance. But Zayn has never been good at expressing his inner thoughts. Not with words, anyway.

"We could go out to eat... maybe see a movie," Liam tries to think of more options, but Zayn's growing smile distracts him.

"Sounds like a proper date," he teases, his smile tight with something Liam is all too familiar with.

"What, I'm not allowed to treat you?" Liam shoots back, passing a nervous hand through his hair. Zayn laughs, shaking his head.

"Of course you can, Babe," He says, of course, because it's always that – _Hon, Love, Babe_. They are achingly empty reminders, cruel, serving only to mock Liam of his feelings for the man across him.

A real customer walks in that same moment, and Liam decides whatever Zayn's trying to do here is not worth his emotional unease.

"Want to stick around?" he asks, making a vague hand gesture toward an empty booth in the corner, "My shifts up in like, fifteen minutes,"

"Sure," Z sighs, pushing up from the counter.

Liam inhales deeply, plasters a friendly smile onto his face and welcomes the customer. In his peripheral vision he follows Zayn to the other side of the café, where he plops down in the empty booth, pulling out his phone and unwinding his headphones.

-

"So ... how was your day?" Liam wonders, tugging a new t shirt over his head. He's just finished his evening shower; going out with Zayn means they'll most likely get caught up in conversation and stay out much later than time permits. Liam makes a mental note to get some essay writing in before work tomorrow.

"Fine," Zayn hums, thumb flicking his lighter on and off. Liam wanders over to his dresser, pulling open his drawer and retrieving a pair of socks.

"Manage to do anything productive? Like maybe, apply to some jobs...?," Liam raises his brows, a gentle teasing in his words. His goal isn't to make Zayn feel bad about himself, or guilty that he's not advancing every waking moment toward his future, but he hopes one day soon all of these reminders will catch up to him and maybe, _just maybe_ \- Zayn will actually take them to heart.

Wishful thinking, Liam knows.

Zayn makes a face. "Please,"

He stops himself, losing his confidence. Somehow Liam knows exactly what he is about to say.

"I already have a job,"

It's easily arguable – that what Zayn does should not be considered work. Though technically he does obtain monetary compensation for his services, Liam has always had a hard time accepting the validity of the entire institution. But he learned a long time ago that he can't control what Zayn does.

"Right," Liam breathes, accepting the finality of his statement. He kicks his favorite pair of black trainers out of his closet.

Zayn doesn't add any more to the topic. After a beat of silence he sits up, hood falling down the nape of his neck as he scoots to the end of Liam's mattress. Liam sits on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on, quickly lacing them.

He tries to ignore Zayn removing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, sliding one into his lips and flicking on his lighter. He takes a drag, holding it in his chest for a moment, then exhaling with far too much frivolity. Liam's sinuses burn with the taste of tight, black tar; he shoots Zayn an irritated scowl.

"Do you have to do that in here?"

"Sorry," He sniffles, but makes no move to excuse himself, or really do anything to acknowledge Liam's discomfort. The younger frowns, but isn't all that surprised with the behavior.

Liam stands, unplugging his mobile phone, collecting his wallet and room key and depositing them into various pockets.

"Come on, then," Liam grumbles, grabbing his windbreaker and exiting the bedroom. Zayn sighs heavily, but eventually stands, following Liam out to the front door.  


-

 

"What are we eating?"

"I don't know, where would you like to eat?" Liam asks, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. It's too fucking cold for them to be roaming around the streets after sundown, but Zayn is not very good at making up his mind, so he doubts they'll be quick to choose a destination.

"Wherever," he says, which is expected. He's obviously more focused on his cigarette than anything else, but if he's working tonight he'll probably need something stronger than nicotine to help him get through it.

"Let's just go to McDonalds then," Liam huffs, because he hates when Zayn gets like this – lazy, willing to ride the waves of Liam's take-charge personality. He loops his arm around Liam's neck, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth to speak.

"You cheap bitch," Zayn giggles, scraping his thumb nail against his nose ring.

"What, I can't treat you to chicken nuggets?" Liam pretends to be affronted. Zayn ought to be grateful he's getting anything at all.

"Only you would treat me to chicken nuggets, Babe," Zayn smirks, taking another strum of nicotine into his lungs. And Liam isn't sure why, but he feels a pang of jealousy at his words. Zayn's been with other people, obviously people who could afford him.

Liam tries his best not to dwell on that comparison, because there shouldn't be any correlation between his relationship with Zayn and Zayn's relationship to his clients. Not just because Liam is much closer to Zayn than any of them, that he's a struggling college student, and knows that Zayn knows that– but because he's already certain he'll never be able to treat Zayn that way, with gourmet meals, expensive wines and posh hotels. Liam will never be able to give Zayn the life he's dreamed of since he was a boy. And there's nothing to be gained from making himself feel worse about the man's indifference toward him.

"Only the best for my best Buddy," Liam says, nuzzling into Zayn's embrace. He can feel the older man's gaze lingering for a few moments before the crosswalk light switches, but it isn't nearly enough time for Liam to make anything of it, so he just glances both ways before he and Zayn cross the street in the direction of the nearest Mcdonald's.  


-  


Zayn wants to go to art school. His family never had a lot of money, what with his father fucking off to Pakistan and leaving Zayn's mother to raise four kids alone on her cosmetology salary. He was never very good at school and didn't qualify for the government grant, but he doesn't want to take out loans. The older is convinced that eventually he'll save up enough to pay his full tuition, and Liam supports him one-hundred percent on the path to achieving his dreams. But he can't pretend Zayn's work doesn't disturb him.

He found out one night he and Zayn were out to dinner (because neither of them were motivated enough to fix something back at home). After they ate and spent thirty minutes venting about the inconsistencies within the latest Marvel movie, Zayn excused himself for less than five minutes to take a call. Then he returned, apologized and collected his coat.

"I'm meeting someone," Zayn had vaguely said, leaving Liam feeling hurt. He didn't know Zayn was dating at the moment, and thought the older man would at least share that kind of information with him.

But when Liam made this assumption, Zayn chuckled lightly, leaving the younger even more confused. Seeing this, Zayn hesitantly explained.

"I'm ... I'm an escort, Liam," he gently admitted as he slid his coat on over his shoulders. It was simple enough, really. But Liam - being as practical and overzealous as usual - wasn't sure exactly what that entailed, and didn't want to draw any false conclusions about Zayn's line of work.

This was his best friend after all, who had lived with him for five months, put up with him for seven years and continued to display his love each and every day. How was he even supposed to react to this revelation? How could he just accept that Zayn kept something like this from him?

The older man bore a sincerity that night, an inconceivable regret ghosting across his features as he watched Liam try to make sense of what he was saying. Zayn probably hadn't _wanted_ to keep Liam in the shadows about his life, but he feared the backlash. Liam wasn't always the most understanding.

In the end, he was left dumbfounded, stuttering like a fool as he promised Zayn it was fine, that he could pay the bill because he wouldn't want to make the man late for his – whatever he was about to do. And Zayn realized Liam was uncomfortable, unsure of his words and fumbling for the check in a desperate attempt to illustrate that everything was still perfectly normal and that he could process this crazy fucking information without making a big deal out of it. So Zayn left, probably feeling guilty for ending their night on such an awkward key.

They don't talk about it. Liam doesn't really want to talk about it with him, anyway. What on earth would he say?

 _I know you're a prostitute, but I still love you? I know you fuck for a living, but I don't like it and I want you to stop? I get that you're desperate for money, mate, but you don't have to go selling your arse_ —

Liam feels fucking stupid every time he tries to wrap his mind around it.

Because you might hear about it, read about it or see it on a telly screen, but shit like that doesn't happen in _real_ life; friends don't live secret lives behind your back, people don't just resort to something so socially frowned upon unless they've exhausted all other options, and Zayn has much more respect for himself than that.

Liam is naive, but he knows there's much more to this story than Zayn is letting on. He's tried to make himself okay with lies and plot holes and countless excuses, but there's still only so much one can take before succumbing to insanity.

Although they never learned how to talk about feelings, Liam can't shake the desire to bring it up, to back Zayn into a corner he can't escape and finally ask why the fuck he does it and what he needs to do to help Zayn stop. It's all he wants some days. Liam doesn't care about school, he doesn't care about work, time, money, love or success. He just wants Zayn to be happy, safe, and free from whatever is pressuring him into this. He's willing to try anything.

-

The next two days bleed together in a haze of biochemistry notes, research topics and essay outlines. Liam subjects himself to an instant dinner and ramen noodle diet, gets permission to leave his Thursday shift early and cuts his shower time in half every night. He somehow manages to email his essay to his teacher at 11:50 pm on Friday, and counts this as a major achievement. He closes his laptop with a residual sigh, resting it on his desk. Though he does feel a sense of pride, he's beat, and is very much looking forward to a weekend of serenity in solitude.

He's curled up on the couch in his pajamas with a hot cup of tea, half following an episode of Jessica Jones when Zayn clambers in, leaving the flat door wide open as he rushes into the kitchen.

"You leave that door open on purpose? It's freezing," Liam huffs, placing his beverage on the coffee table, drawing the blanket further up over his torso.

"Yeah, I'm heading back out... just had to get something," Zayn trails. Liam hears the refrigerator door shut, before Zayn exits the kitchen, jogging down the hall to his bedroom. Liam runs his hands over his arms under the blanket, brow creasing at his roommates questionable behavior. He's always wished Zayn were a bit more calm.

"Have you seen my phone?" Zayn wonders as he emerges from his bedroom.

"I don't think so," Liam says, rubbing a hand over his facial hair.

"I could have sworn I left it in the fridge," Zayn laughs, returning to double check the kitchen. Liam frowns at this information, but doesn't think a lecture on sanitation is welcomed at this moment.

"I feel like I saw it today," he thinks, mentally retracing everything he did in the flat. After a moment, it hits him.

"Bathroom," he announces proudly. Zayn doesn't need him for much.

"Ah, yes–," Zayn snaps, disappearing once more. Sure enough, he returns with his mobile, already thumbing at the screen.

"Um... so I'm guessing you didn't have any wild plans for tonight?" he notes, ambling toward the front door. Liam looks up from the television screen again, pinching his bottom lip.

"Not particularly,"

"You wouldn't want to go to this party some friends of mine are having? You've been pretty busy all week, I figured you might want to unwind, maybe meet some people?" Zayn offers, glancing up from his text. Though he knows his answer proudly, Liam genuinely mulls over the offer.

He isn't opposed to going out every now and then, like a healthy young adult should, but he's just so swamped mentally, with all of his self-inflicted stressors and creative excuses - he doesn't really feel up to a big social situation right now. Especially because he knows how these things play out; he's been to a party or two with Zayn.

The older man is the only one he knows in the hoard of strangers, loud laughter and alcoholic breath. He's never been very sociable to begin with; he's a light weight and he's rubbish at small talk. The only reason he would be going is because Zayn asked him to, but he would be foolish to think Zayn is asking because he wants him to be there. Liam will most likely lose sight of him no more than five minutes after they arrive and he won't see the older man again for the remainder of the night.

So while he appreciates the sentiment, Liam, rather guiltlessly, declines.

"I'm actually pretty beat, Z. So I think I'll pass, but thanks for the offer," Liam simpers. Zayn hardly reacts, enthralled with whatever he's looking at on his phone. Liam doesn't feel bad. It's not the first time he's been ignored.

"Alright, well I guess I'll see you?" Zayn mumbles, his voice carrying throughout the apartment. Liam grunts to show his acknowledgement, but by then the man has already left, tugging the door shut behind him.

And in the silence, Liam sits. Wondering.

He remembers when he and Zayn were younger. He had never had a friend like him before – someone so distant, so unreliable. He couldn't share anything personal with the lad, never felt comfortable enough in his presence to speak his mind or show his dissatisfaction in the one-sidedness of their friendship. Zayn was never _there_ for him. Perhaps he was always around, but mentally, and emotionally, the older lad was absent and always seemed to have something better to do, somewhere he'd rather be, someone he'd rather be with.

It hurt like shit some days. Liam never really got over the rejection or the fact that he was putting so _much_ into a relationship he hardly ever saw returns from, but he's gotten used to it.

He sometimes wishes Zayn would stay and just _be_ with him every now and then. Like the night they first moved in here, when they finally figured out which wire to plug in which port in the back of the television to make the picture show and Zayn curled up beside Liam on this very couch, kicked his feet up into his lap and tossed greasy microwave popcorn at him for spoiling the best parts of whatever movie they were watching –

But he never tells Zayn that.

-

Liam is sound asleep on his stomach, muscles twitching slightly when he hears the front door close, much harder than necessary. He's been getting better at sleeping over the man's late night disturbances.

He doesn't rouse until about twenty minutes later when he feels a hand slide over his shoulder, nudging him awake. The room is like a cloak of darkness when he parts his eyelids, gently rubbing them to adjust to the orange light bleeding in from the hall.

"Sorry," Zayn whispers. He doesn't sound very sincere. But even in the shadows, Liam can see that he's swaying slightly, eyes barely staying open. He reeks of alcohol.

"You okay?" Is the first thing that comes to his mind. It's sad to think about, really - that even in this state he's still so concerned with the wellbeing of his friend.

"Yeah," Zayn nods, making a soft, unsure sound in this chest. Liam has half the impulse to ask why he's here then, if everything is fine - but he kind of likes that Zayn is here and came to him, regardless of the reasons he probably shouldn't have. (Maybe Liam is too desperate for Zayn's attention to recognize when the man is being selfish.)

"My room is cold. Could... uh, can I sleep here?" Zayn sniffles, and there's something in his eye, a hint of exhaustion, sadness or longing or maybe a combination of all three that if taken for full value would leave Liam sick to his stomach. But he ignores whatever it could mean for now, processing Zayn's request quickly enough to nod, scoot back, lift the duvet and invite him under.

"Thanks," Zayn breathes, sounding relieved. He slips into bed beside Liam, pulling the covers up over his torso so they bunch around the base of his neck. His bony ankle brushes against Liam's leg, making him shudder.

"Jesus, mate you're freezing," Liam winces, his brow furrowing with concern. He's got plenty of reasons to hate what Zayn does and how he lives; staying out late in a winter as harsh as this is just one of them.

"Sorry," he says again, like his brain is on autopilot. Which, it probably is at this hour, with whatever toxins flowing down his bloodstream.

"How was the party?" Liam asks then, because he knows Zayn will be out soon, and that he most likely won't want to talk about it tomorrow when he's nursing a hangover and hiding behind calculated lies. Drunk Zayn is really the only way Liam will ever get the answers he craves.

"Fine," he mumbles, wrapping his arms around himself. Liam sinks into the softness of his pillow, pushing an arm beneath his head.

"Did you have fun?" Liam chuckles, because he's just now realizing how little they talk. He doesn't really know what he wants to know.

"Not really," Zayn huffs, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones, skin looking unbelievably soft in the blue moonlit undertones.

"I mean, I only know these guys through work. They're not very interesting...," he finishes, his voice dissipating in the darkness.

Liam swallows. "Oh,"

It's pretty much the first work-related thing Zayn's shared with him since he first found out about it. And he's aware that it's partially his fault, for not asking, leaving Zayn to speculate why -

"I met this bloke," he takes another inhale, pausing like it's difficult to breathe, "'Couple weeks ago,"

Liam hums in affirmation. He's watching the way Zayn's soft, un-styled fringe is spreading across his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest, the look of exhaustion coloring his delicate features.

"He's been... like, helping me," Zayn slurs, his voice fading.

"Helping you how?" Liam asks when Zayn doesn't continue. He isn't sure if he should try to push for more information before the man inevitably slips out of consciousness, because now that he's learned something he obviously wants to know everything.

"Um... he's been setting up my clients. He knows a lot of like, A-list people, so. 'Been making way more than usual," Zayn nuzzles into Liam's pillow, his skin finally adjusting to the warmth that engulfs him.

"What's his name?" Liam wonders, because he wants to know who is helping Zayn, but mostly because he wants to know who to blame if anything goes south. He's already skeptical of whomever this is; it sounds like a recipe for exploitation and ultimately disaster, because Zayn's never had very good judgement when it comes to character.

The older man lets his eyes drift open for a short moment, but he looks hesitant, like maybe he's come back to his senses for a moment and regrets every part of this conversation. Liam can feel Zayn's knuckles brushing against his forearm, fingers closing around his wrist. He frowns.

"Shahid,"

-

Monday is a migraine; Liam spends an extra hour at work because Linda decided to go awol on her three-thirty shift. He eats chicken curry and rice for dinner, the clank and scrape of his fork echoing in the vacant apartment. Zayn doesn't come home until four in the morning.

Tuesday is talking on the phone with his mother for thirty-five minutes before curtly apologizing, ending the call with an empty promise to visit home more often so he can return to studying. Liam's been trying harder to balance his life, to take his family more seriously, to perform well at work, but until he finishes this semester, his priorities will remain distorted.

Wednesday is uncomfortable; he finds one of Zayn's red socks cooling it in his wash of whites, and he stops by Tesco to get some milk, but Zayn's card gets declined - overdrawn, of course - so he has to pay out of pocket, anxiously dropping bills and coins onto the counter like some teenager mustering up the courage to buy cigarettes for the first time.

He's too tired to complain when he walks into their apartment that afternoon, the unmistakable pungency of skunk spray knocking him back onto his heels. He stores the milk in the fridge, taking a deep, toxic breath before wandering down the hall and pushing Zayn's door open.

"I thought I asked you not to do that in here," Liam starts, folding his arms over his chest. Zayn peers up from where he's sitting on the floor against the end of his bed frame, a joint tucked between his lips, thin fingers curled around a game controller.

"Sorry, Babe. Come here," Zayn says, those eyes beckoning him closer. Liam hesitates in the doorway, shaking his knee.

"You need to crack open a window," Liam declares, only to make himself feel better about succumbing to yet another poor choice at Zayn's hand. He swoops down, yanking the spliff from Zayn's loose lips and gliding it between his own.

Zayn tears his eyes away from the television screen, a grin sliding onto his face as his slowed senses register what Liam just did. His character gets shot by a lightning bolt in his absence, and the screen fades as the game informs him of his virtual death.

"That was hot," Zayn breathes, eyes lingering on the younger man's form. Liam gives him a questionable look as he sits on the end of Zayn's unmade bed, chuckling slightly. He takes a slow drag, savoring the burn toward the back of his throat, the way his eyes water and sting. He pulls off, the plume of smoke coiling through his lungs, pushing out of his mouth.

"Tired," Liam rubs his eye.

"Same. Are you working tonight?" Zayn wonders.

"Nah, that's tomorrow... I've been thinking I should cut down my hours a bit," Liam thinks, smoothing his hand over Zayn's bedsheets.

He's content to watch Zayn play his idle fighting game; he likes to look at the way Zayn's shoulder blades jut from his smooth back, the way each dip of his vertebrae ripples beneath his thin white shirt as his fingers work frantically over the game controls.

"…Just until the semester ends. I need more time to focus on school,"

"You should. You work too much," Zayn says, as if he knows anything about how much or little Liam ought to be working. But Liam doesn't express his disdain, instead, takes another hit.

"Right," he breathes, passing the joint back to his roommate.  
"I can't wait to get my degree. I'm already sick of making ten pound an hour. It's not nearly enough for how much work I'm putting in,"

"True. Still got a few years to go though, yeah?" Liam can hear the teasing in his voice.

"Yeah,"

"Shit," Zayn curses as he dies again. He's always been rubbish at Tekken. Liam laughs at him, nudging his shoulder with his ankle. He frowns when Liam gestures for him to hand over the remote.

He reluctantly gives it up, muttering under his breath. Liam works at it for about a minute, somehow, someway tapping into his vault of combo moves from years ago and beating the boss without even breaking a sweat.

"Okay, fuck you," Zayn complains, slapping his knee, reaching up onto the bed and snatching the controller back.

He's determined to beat the game on his own and Liam watches him play to no avail for the next few minutes.

"So," he starts after a while, deciding to change the subject. "How are you?"

Zayn dies yet again in his game and frustratedly tosses his controller across the room. He slips the blunt between his lips and takes another steep drag. He checks his phone, then stands, crossing the room toward his closet.

"Fine," He eventually answers.

Liam chews his bottom lip, looking back over to the menu screen of the video game. Zayn offers him the next hit, then returns to his closet. He tugs his shirt up over his head, tossing it into the corner of the room. He changes into a wool knit jumper, fitting for the cold.

"How's Shahid?" Liam mumbles.

Zayn twists around, his brow creasing. It takes a moment before he recalls their conversation from Friday.

"He's okay," Zayn trails, guarded. Liam nods, trying to convey his neutrality on the subject.

"Alright,"

"Why?"

"I was just wondering," Liam swears. Zayn smooths a hand over his stubble. After a moment the older man sighs. He moves toward the bed, sits next to Liam and the younger tries his best not to focus on the fact that their thighs are touching.

"He's cool, yeah?" Zayn assures, searching Liam's eyes. He's nowhere near convinced.

"Why is he helping you?" Liam asks, because he doesn't understand. And to some extent, it's always been like this with them. Because Zayn is older and difficult to reach, Liam has always felt abandoned and in the dark. He doesn't get why his best friend does a lot of the things he does, and for the most part Zayn doesn't ever offer any explanation.

"He isn't – it's not charity work, Liam. He's getting something out of it as well," Liam feels his heart drop.

"Is he pimping you out?" Liam sucks the air through his gritted teeth, shoving the older man's shoulder.

"Babe, no," Zayn laughs, as if it's obviously not that kind of situation. As if he tells Liam things, and somehow, the younger should already know. He glowers.

"He's just been hooking me up. He's big in the underground and he's got like, this whole directory. People know him, and they feel more comfortable contacting him, and letting _him_ recommend someone for their needs. He collects the payments, tells us where to meet, and once it's done, he pays me," Zayn explains, taking the blunt back. Liam just looks at him, the way his eyelashes flutter as he welcomes the toxins into his bloodstream.

"This way I meet more clients, which ups the chances of me getting regulars, which translates to higher prices, so – more money," Liam listens, staring at the plume of smoke that falls from Zayn's lips. It's terribly distracting.

"I don't know, Z. It sounds," Liam hesitates. He doesn't know why he's even speaking right now. Zayn didn't ask for his opinion. He never does.

"Do you trust him?"

Zayn passes the spliff back, draping his arm over Liam's shoulders. The younger shudders under his touch.

"I don't know, Li. Do I have to? It's just business," Zayn's voice wavers.

"Yeah, but," Liam doesn't finish. He doesn't know what else to say.

"I mean, I didn't have a lot growing up. You know that. And now I'm making what, a couple hundred quid a night? I can't pass that up," Zayn explains.

Liam nods. He does know that. He would be naive to think this is about anything besides money, and practicality. Who in their right mind _wouldn't_ take advantage of such an opportunity? Zayn is smart. Liam should have more faith in him.

Zayn can tell he is agitated, so he leans in close and presses his dry lips to Liam's cheek. The younger frowns.

Zayn stands, winking, before padding out of the room.

Emotionally taxed and left to his violent thoughts, Liam takes another hit. He doesn't like that Zayn is so careless in his pride and won't abide by sensible precautions. He wonders if Zayn will ever let himself be helped, if he'll ever admit that he doesn't have all the answers.

Apparently time passes. He listens to the sound of Zayn running tap water in the hallway bathroom. He's getting ready.

Zayn returns wearing his contacts, his jaw free of stubble, hair loose and damp at the tips. He pulls on his studded black leather jacket, digging through his closet to find his matching black boots. Liam smiles, holding the blunt to his lips as the man mutters and curses frustratedly under his breath.

"When are you going to be back?" Liam asks, hating how desperate he sounds. Sometimes he thinks Zayn knows, when his eyes linger too long, or his voice trembles too hard. Sometimes he's convinced it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Maybe tonight," Zayn takes the final hit, then stubs it out in the ash tray on his nightstand. He slides his phone and his wallet into his pockets, then exits the bedroom.

 _Probably tomorrow._ Liam sighs.

 


End file.
